


The Wrist

by marnies



Series: The Sleepovers [3]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Comfort, Crushes, Cuddling, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Hugs, Humor, M/M, Nightmares, Oh you know, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Sleepiness, Sleepovers, Swearing, fuck the clown, gggjsdgghfhhhs, hhhhhhhhhhhhhjjjjjjjjjj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 05:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13850817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marnies/pseuds/marnies
Summary: Sequel to Home Invasion"You know what, Richie? I kind of do."





	The Wrist

**Author's Note:**

> Previously: At 10:46 on the first day of summer, Richie Tozier tumbled down the tallest tree in the woods.

   Richie could smell something. He smelled the smell of a sun-dried storm, popcorn, piss, and shit. Water dripped from a rusted pipe to a cold cement floor, echoing in his ears. He felt the floor under his back, pressing as if more than his own weight were pushing him into it, trying to drill into the concrete with his shoulder blades as a jackhammer. What this meant registered in his heart rate faster than it did in his sluggish brain, the pumping of his blood becoming louder. It almost seemed to source from outside his body, pushing into his veins while he lay on his back. He wiggled a finger experimentally, but could not open his eyes. Richie panicked.

   Over the pounding (and distant beeping?) of his heart that predominated all, Richie could barely hear footsteps echo. They stepped towards his body, a figure getting closer and closer. He still couldn’t open his eyes; even if he could, he thought distantly, the familiar weight of his glasses wasn’t on the bridge of his nose, so he wouldn’t even be able to see an inch in front of him. He spiraled further.

   The footsteps stopped, and Richie could tell that the figure was right by him. All he’d gathered so far was that he must be alone in the sewers, probably lying on the ground of that big, stinky lair with the mountains of junk and the pillar of floating kids, and maybe he’d be floating too if his whole body wasn’t so fucking heavy, and, oh god, he was going to die if he couldn’t just _ open his fucking eyes-- _

   “Richie?”

  It was the clown. It had to be. Richie tried to scream, but his lips wouldn’t move any more than his eyelids would. He was suddenly hyper-aware that his mouth hung open, perfectly available to that looming, drooling monster that so certainly stood above him.

   “Richie, I need you to open your eyes.”

_    I can’t! _ He tried to scream.  _ I fucking can’t! I don’t even want to look at you, I don’t even want to see what you want me to see! Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it-- _

   Its hand descended upon his bare arm. Richie’s stubborn eyes that wouldn’t open were apparently perfectly capable of tearing up and crying, and that stupid beeping that fell in time with his heartbeat was still there, and he felt like he was going to pass out, or throw up, or do  _ something _ \--

   Richie opened his eyes.

   The smell disappeared, only to be replaced by a nostril-burning sterility. The sounds of footsteps were gone, but the beeps and soft dripping remained, coming from his left side. Fuzzy whiteness surrounded him, save for what looked like a poster across the room and a pink woman who leaned above him. She gave some semblance of a smile--or, at least, the blurry line of pink at the bottom of her face seemed to turn upward a little bit. He hoped he was smiling back.

   “Sorry, we couldn’t let you sleep any longer, honey.” The woman passed him his glasses, which he shakily accepted. “You banged your head a bit going down that tree; some dare, I bet?”

   Her features snapped into place once Richie’s glasses were on, but a glassy film remained over the scene, making him feel dizzy and detached. The reason she’d looked so pink was because of her scrubs, Richie realized--she was dressed in bubblegum-pink hospital attire, with even her sneakers and their laces matching the shade. Her lipstick was pink, too. She had a kind, if not sagging face, and chattered on while she did something with the bags at his side. He melted into the bed.

   “I remember when I was your age, pulling stunts like that. Your mother is so level-headed--why, mine would be spilling her chowder right about now if I was in your place. Well, that is, if she were still around…”

   Richie’s lips weren’t awake enough to ask whether that was a legitimate phrase or not.

   “On I go,” she continued. “They didn’t call me Babbling Liz back at home for nothing. Your mom’s coming in in a second, but first I need to know how you’re feeling. Holding up okay?”

   Richie mumbled something that could have been “a-okay,” or could have been “Chick Fil A,” but the nurse--Liz--seemed satisfied enough. She ruffled his hair like he was a little kid.

   “Yeah, they’ve got you on a little something, but nothing much. I’ll see to lowering that dosage. You seem a lightweight, huh?” She laughed, although Richie didn’t really see why. “Hang tight, Richie. Your mom will be just a sec.”

   And then she was out of the room, hips swaying.

   Richie took note of the single poster across from him. It was one of those  _ ‘Hang In There!’ _ posters people put in their offices, classrooms, and apparently children’s hospitals. He stared at it for a while, unblinking.

   His mother caught him off guard when she sat down next to him. Her chair had appeared out of nowhere while he wasn’t looking.

   Mom was oddly terse, only looking at him every now and then while she gave him the run-down of what had happened. As she spoke, he began to recall a lot of what she said: hitting his head on a tree, landing partially on a rock, Beverly helping him up and dragging him home, and his mother finally taking him and dragging him to the car. Her explanation was cursory but jogged Richie’s memory.

   It was only then that he noticed the cast situated on his wrist. That explained why his arm was so heavy. And hey, now he and Eds were twinsies! Richie giggled despite himself.

   It could have been minutes or hours before his mom gave away whatever she’d been writing on and told him it was time to go. Richie found that his legs were still somewhat functioning as he let her guide him outside and to the car. Liz waved goodbye at him. He waved his good hand.

   The ride back was silent, giving Richie some time to process. So, he’d been playing with Beverly. He’d fallen from the tree, and now he was in the car with his mother, heading home. He wondered if Beverly was okay. She hadn’t hurt herself, had she? If she hadn’t, knowing Bev, she was probably pacing around in circles, worried sick. Or, Richie thought with dread, maybe she was at home with no one to go to but her shitty dad, who was probably drinking and slapping her around, and trying all sorts of shit he’d never get away with if Richie were around for it--

   “Honey, what’s wrong? You’re going to hurt your arm tensing up like that.”

   Richie lost his train of thought.

   When they arrived home, he went straight to bed, Mom leaving him with a glass of water. She said they’d talk later, although about what she didn’t specify. It crossed his mind again that a familiar presence was missing from this picture; something

   (someone)

   Was supposed to be there. He turned to the window to his right on instinct. The window was still and shut tightly, although he seemed to remember having left it open that morning. 

   He tried hard to think of who was missing from this picture. Was it Eddie? As much as he missed Eddie, he couldn’t exactly say that he was missing, especially since Eddie never came over to his house in the first place. Another noodle-head came to mind: Stan? Stan thought he was insufferable when they hung out alone. That ruled out those two…

  (Beverly).

   “Molly Ringwald,” Richie found himself whispering. Of course--Beverly was always around when he felt like shit. He lay on his side, back to the window. Wishfully, he imagined Beverly knocking on that window now.

_    Tap, tap. _

   She always did knock, even when she knew Richie would always let her in. The window was never locked. She’d do her little _ tap tap _ , and Richie would say something like:

   “Come in, my good lady; come in!”

   She’d clatter in and dust herself off, making quite the little ruckus, stomping her dirty boots, dusting off her ratty dress, and say:

   “Thank you, my good man! I’ve brought company!”

   Richie frowned. No, that wasn’t right. Bev never brought anyone along. It was always in the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, that she came over. The sleepovers were their little secret. He chided the voice in his head for taking its own initiative. 

   “Richie?” It went on. Suddenly, the voice didn’t sound so much like Beverly. It actually kind of sounded like… Eddie? Richie was confused now. He curled into a ball and covered his ears.

   “Maybe we should leave him alone, you guys.” The voice deepened to an uncertain infliction, sounding profoundly Mike-ish. Richie realized then that the familiar pattern of Beverly’s two feet had amplified as if she’d grown several pairs of legs. This was a nightmare, he realized. He had to be dreaming--the voices were too real.

   But it wasn’t.

   “Of course not. We already went through all the trouble of getting here. And no offense Mike, but I’m not biking up the hill to your place again.” With that, a very real, very solid hand gripped his shoulder. Richie tensed.

   “Come on, asshole, we know you’re awake.” That was definitely Stan, and he was close. Richie opened his eyes. When had his glasses come off?

   “Here.” A muscled hand appeared in his face--Mike’s. He took the glasses from him and everything snapped into place.

   The first thing he saw was Mike on his left side, by the bookshelf, towering so that Richie could only really see up his nostrils. Stan was on his right, noodle-haired and angry as ever, but he didn’t see him until he saw Eddie and the rest, hovering awkwardly by the window. Bill and Ben shuffled their feet, pretty much on top of each other in the furthermost corner. Beverly stared at the floor. She clutched something in her fist. He hadn’t been imagining--the whole club was standing in his bedroom, towering over his bed. Richie shook off the embarrassment.

   “Ah say!” he declared in a Voice whose name he couldn’t recall, scrambling to gather himself. “Ah say, what an ensemble we have here! Why, I ain’t nevah had a special treat such as this in mah entiah life! Could this be our very own beloved Haystack Handsome, Mr. Nostrils, The Noodle Twins--Stan Linguine and Spaghetti McGee--Billiam Diaperbrough, and, of course, the incomparable MISSUS--”

   “I’m sorry,” Beverly blurted out. She shuffled her feet.

   Now Richie was confused again. Sorry? What did Bev have to be sorry for? She played with the paper bag in her hands once more before stepping forward and holding it out to him. She positioned her body away from the bed, stretching her arm as if she didn’t want to come near him, or he might not want to be near her. It looked a little awkward.

   “Come closer, dear…” Richie croaked without thinking. “Come closer so your poor old grandma’s poor old eyes can get a look at you…”

   Beverly didn’t laugh. No one laughed. He took the bag.

   “I know this doesn’t change anything,” she said. “It’s still my fault; I just wanted to… I don’t know…”

   He opened the bag.

   It was full of candy--gummy bears, sour candies, suckers, and all his favorites. (And Bev knew they were his favorites, too--he recalled the stupid day they’d been at the candy store, and he’d stuck his tongue out at all the malt balls and truffles. He was sort of flattered she remembered.).

   “If you hate me now, that’s okay. It’s why I called everyone else--so you didn’t have to be alone. Not that you don’t have your mom, I guess. I don’t know...”

   Richie picked out a gummy bear and looked it in the eye. It’s sweet gummy grin glimmered back at him. He squeezed it between his thumb and index finger, waiting for the room to go silent, before throwing it right in Beverly’s face, hitting her in the eye.

   “Hey!” she protested. “What--”

   He chucked another one. That one was a sucker.

   “Richie--”

   One more, for good measure--a lemon chew. That’d show her.

   “Richie; I’m serious--”

   “Yeah, well you’re an idiot,” he retorted. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Bev. Of course, I still want to be friends. The whole thing was my idea, to begin with.

   “Plus,” he continued, biting into a gummy. “Who else would personally deliver a whole bag of candy to my deathbed, while I’m crippled and dying?”

   “You are so not dying.” Eddie, who’d been quiet with the rest, stormed forward to abolish the remaining tension, even as weight naturally lifted from the room. Richie caught Beverly’s eye and held it.

_   “You okay?” _ He tried to convey.

_   “I’m okay,” _ she seemed to say. Richie blinked. Either they’d spent enough time together to communicate telepathically, or that pain medicine hadn’t worn off as much as he’d thought.

  “I’m sorry, what was that, Eds? I couldn’t hear you over the fact that we’re TWINSIES now!”

   Richie waved his new cast in the air until Eddie pushed it down with his good arm.

   “We’re NOT! It’s not even the same arm,” he protested.

   “What, can’t you stand to have a single thing in common with me, Eddie Spaghetti? I’m hurt.”

   “Whe-when’s the wedding?” Bill giggled. Eddie rolled his eyes and grabbed something off the bedside table.

   “You want to be matching?” He grabbed Richie’s cast. “Here.”

   The Loser’s gathered around the bed to see what he was pulling. Even Mike, who’d been playing with something on the wall on the other side of the room, leaned over Richie. Richie strained to catch a glance--he seemed to be writing something.

   “Oh come on, Eddie, that’s mean!” Mike suddenly chided.

   “What? What did he write?” Richie snatched his arm back before Eddie could finish, making the marker drag off at the last letter, as the ink moved with Eddie’s hand. He stared.

**_“LOSER_”_ **

   Eddie smiled more softly than he had the right to, Richie thought.

   “It’s not done yet.”

   The room was quiet once again as Eddie unzipped his fanny pack to pull out a thick, red marker. That stupid fucking fanny pack, Richie thought. Eddie didn’t even take his stupid pills anymore, and he still carried that thing around. Richie had no idea what he kept in there, other than a fake inhaler, and, apparently, a red marker.

   Probably a fake dick, Richie thought. A strap-on for emergencies.

It was kind of cute.

He held still as Eddie put on the finishing touch on, then held the cast up next to his.

**_“LO_ ** ~~**_S_ ** ~~ **_VER_”_ **

Richie’s was sloppier, no doubt since he’d been wiggling and shoving while Eddie wrote. It had character though, Richie decided, and was overcome with the urge to wrap Eddie in a massive, sharpie-and-disinfectant-scented hug. So he did.

  “Awe geez, Rich, I--st--Christ, what did they put you on… I--”

   Mike laughed, and joined in on the hug, breaking the barrier between the rest. He smelled like wood musk and hay. Then Bill joined, too. Then Ben, then Beverly, and then Stan. Richie could have stayed wrapped up in them for hours. He only came back to reality when Eddie made a choking noise and wheezed.

   “Alright, off! OFF! You guys are so sappy, it’s gross.” Eddie’s tone was disgusted, but he giggled while he said it.

   Richie was too tired and giddy to pay much attention to what went on after that. Bill and Mike slunk into the hallway so as not to alert Richie’s mother. They went to “get some supplies,” as Mike so ominously put it, but Ben said they were just getting pillows and blankets and shit. Richie wondered why they bothered to be so sneaky when his mom’s bedroom door was literally wide open right across the hall. She’d be sitting at her desk, which faced the door. He thought he even saw her poke her head out of her room to see Bill slide by, before frowning, shaking her head, and shutting the door. Bev said not to worry about it.

   Ben and Eddie fussed over Richie, while Stan messed with his stuff, and Beverly seemed to be trying to hide all evidence that she’d ever been in here before in her entire life. She kept pressing herself against the closet door, awkwardly pushing a sock of hers behind her leg. It was as if she thought anyone in the Losers’ club would give two and a half shits knowing that she found salvation over at Richie’s some nights. He didn’t comment. Stan didn’t seem to catch on, anyway.

   “--an-and I hear they don’t even clean shit right at that hospital. Like, um, my mom said that they’ll let some guy who has, like, pneumonia or whatever use a bed, and then they won’t even wash the sheets before putting whoever’s next in there, which totally means you could be infected, and who knows if they even set your arm right--”

   “--Eddie, he’s not even listening--”

   “We-we’ve g-got the goods!”

   Bill and Mike came into view, Mike setting the door shut behind them. It didn’t go as quietly as he seemed to have hoped, since he had to do it with the back of his foot, and he flinched at the sound. Their arms were full of blankets and pillows that they’d probably scored from the hallway closet. Mike dumped his load into Bill’s arms, and started dishing out blankets.

   “You guys weren’t kidding about spending the night.” Richie still couldn’t believe they’d all shown up for something as stupid as him falling out of a tree. They were the Losers’ Club, after all.

  “Well, yeah.” Ben tossed a blanket onto the carpet. “Bev wasn’t going to pay Stan back for that candy until we agreed. More for his sake than yours, to be honest.”

   “Ben, my man, I am touched that you care about me so much. You… ” Richie tried to think of another quip, but the weight that had settled on his eyelids and chest seemed far more pressing all of a sudden. He trailed off with a yawn and slid down the bed.

   The familiar shuffle of his friends continued as they pitched camp, a murmurous conversation and a giggle sounding here and there. He figured it would be getting late pretty soon. As usual, Stan and Mike were the first to lay down in their respective nests and ask for the lights off. Whoever was by the lightswitch complied. Silence fell. It could have been minutes or hours before a warm body pressed up beside him.

   “This okay?” Eddie asked.

   Richie didn’t answer, just hummed happily and settled in. It was nice, he thought. But something

   (someone)

   Had been irking at him. More of a question than anything. Richie’s sluggish heart rate picked up, even as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

   “Hey, Eddie?” He whispered, almost asleep. He had to ask.

   “Yeah, Rich?”

   “Do… Do you like it when I call you Eds?”

   It wasn’t the question he wanted Eddie to answer. Eddie knew that. He was drifting off before really knowing it.

   “You know what, Richie?” Eddie answered, slipping off Richie’s glasses, without bothering to keep his voice down. “I kind of do.”

   The last thing Richie heard before passing out completely was a whispered: “oooh!” followed by a: “shut up!” coming from the floor. The world went silent and warm.

   The next morning, Eddie didn’t tease him for snoring too loudly, or for hugging him too tightly, or for sleeping in too late. He blushed a little, made sure no one else was looking, and asked if Richie felt any better. Richie could only grin in response. He couldn’t help but feel that for once something

   (someone)

   Was opening up in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized 99% of the way through writing this that it would make a way cuter Hanzier fic, but by then it was too late and yeah. This is the most connected anything in this series is going to be, honestly. Hey, check out [my Tumblr.](https://externalfluidside.tumblr.com)


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